What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?
After all these years, she’s still beautiful. Only her right hand has deteriorated, white cotton coming out of her fingertips, pointing in strange directions. She carried a shamisen once. Now she stands on her balsa wood base with her arms held out, the fingers on her left hand positioned to play a note in minor third, the saddest sound. If you did not know what she used to carry you might think she was trying to describe something, something very large and important.
My work explores the intersection of innocence and its end. My figures are doll-like; their very stiffness and remoteness hearkens back to abandoned toys. I want them to affect you the way your favorite childhood toy might if you found it in a box in your mother’s attic.
And yet, my figures are anything but childlike. Constructed from the simplest of materials—a chip of bark, a piece of cloth from a stranger’s old coat, a bit of rusted wire, sometimes beeswax—they scold us. Caught in the act of being seen—an act that portends both innocence and its end—they scold us. For our rejected toys. Our forgotten beliefs. Our abandoned gardens.